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“Your mother has sent a message requesting your presence in the private residence,” squawked the node terminal at Vasily’s lab desk. Late afternoon had sunk the lab into gloom, and the node display cast its eery light across Vasily’s work tables. Vasily sat looking in frustration at the results of two weeks’ on-again, off-again efforts.
“This is insipid,” Vasily said. “Learning-tablet stuff. Tell her I’m busy.”
“The message permits no return. It is a command line.”
“She can wait. You’re doing me no favors here, terminal. I’m not going to win any contests with nested exponentials.”
The computer offered no rejoinder.
Vasily ran a hand through his hair, stopping before he reached the crown.
“We run what is surely the best multicore on the planet, and they limit the contest to what a poky, autolave’s cat-6 can do. It’s anti-democratic. It’s discriminatory. It’s anti-elitist. You could emulate every cat-6 on Linnet — or at least in the district — running in parallel.”
Vasily looked thoughtful for a moment.
“I process a multitude,” spake the node.
Vasily sat up. “Yes, that’s true. You do. Terminal, analyze the contest rules. Do they affirmatively forbid ganged cat-6 processing?”
“Working.”
“Hurry up!”
“There is no express prohibition. It is at best implied.” The computer’s voice had a strange, reverse-inflection, as though there had been a speech synthesizing processing error.
“There! You see, that’s the whole point. Ramflow must know what kind of processing power I’ve got. He wrote the rules subtly, to be interpreted. That’s why he’s goading me to get into the game. When you look at the language closely, the exception is wide open. So long as cat-6 emulation is used, it doesn’t matter how many multicores are used. You can slice and dice, can’t you, terminal?”
“I can simulate ten to the seventh cat-6 multicores linked in any configuration. Parallelism introduces amdalian inefficiencies, however. Assuming critical-path minimization, I can attempt a hybrid parallel-sequential run at the bit-level, to optimize word-length parameters. There will be excess thermal energies, however. I must evaluate boiler capacity and exhaust-flue loads. The final constraint may be entropic.”
Vasily listened to all this without apparent interest.
“Whatever,” he said. “But you can do it, right?”
“The simple algorithms you have been testing do not strain the limits of my multicores. However, I have insufficient experience in algorithmic output to predict the final results of any given algorithm. Those I have run thus far are highly variable in their characteristics, even when run ten-to-the-twenty-third steps. I discern no mean values.”
“What about, say, a ten-to-the-third initial algorithm sequence run for ten—to-the-twenty-third steps?”
“Redundancies are introduced. All systems above a certain level of complexity reduce to equivalent systems of computation.”
“You mean, like languages or something?”
“The rule applies most strictly to computational systems but finds similarities in linguistic structures. That rule is the essence of this multicore’s language translation routines, though executed inefficiently by traditional binary means.”
“So, how do I know how to start? What kind of initial conditions are optimal?”
There was a pause.
“Terminal?” Vasily said.
“Working.”
“Come on!”
“Please be patient,” said the affectless voice.
Vasily continued to wait. No output was forthcoming from the terminal node. Vasily could see from the telltales that the thing was still on. Had something shut off down in the bunker? Was someone else pulling a lot of processing power right now?
“Terminal?”
No answer. Vasily began to grow nervous. He turned on the big canister lights overhead as the big sun waned. He had never in his life seen a hiccup with the multicore, and he had certainly never seen it delay an output like this.
There was a burping sound from the node’s speech synthesizer, and finally it spoke:
“Among the initial conditions that give rise to productive or non-static results, there is no uniformity, optimal length, or predictive path.”
“Then what use are you? I mean, how can we use all your processing power to find a winning composition for the contest?”
“Brute-force simulation and time.”
Vasily grew impatient and stamped his heel. “Well, how much time?”
“Indeterminate.”
Vasily tossed his head back and screamed.
“I’m going!” he cried. “When I get back, I want a program, and it had better be a good one, or so help me, I’ll . . .”
He screamed again in frustration and stormed off, roughly grabbing a lev-scoot leaning against a pile of diamond discs on a spindle. He sped away, muttering and cursing, towards the doors where the second-shift would soon be exiting the Works.
The lights still burned in the lab. After a few moments, sensing no movement, the multicore shut them off.
“What on Linnet’s topside is the matter with you?” said Mrs. Alexseyev as Vasily kicked off his loafers, one of which nearly hit Portia in the head as she stood in the entry hall removing her gloves. She shot Vasily a venomous glance, but he didn’t appear to notice.
“Nothing is the matter with me, Mother,” the heir said between breaths. “Why should anything be the matter? I assure you nothing is the matter.”
“Watch your tone, please. I merely noticed your coloring and damp. No doubt you hurried here to respond to my summons.”
Mrs. Alexseyev was sitting firmly upright on the end of her chaise. She was formally made up as if readied for a dress ball. Behind her, beyond the glass panels, twilight descended on the Works. The drape clicked and began to traverse.
“No, Portia. Leave it open,” called out the regent.
The tall drape halted and retracted.
“And busy yourself in the kitchen,” Mrs. Alexseyev added. “Son, please sit with me. I have a matter to discuss.”
Vasily knew the tone. “It’s nothing, Mother. Just a competition. It’s a minor distraction, I assure you.”
“What?”
Vasily looked suspiciously at his mother. “Ramflow’s —”
“Don’t you speak that name. And whatever you’re cooking up with him, it had better not distract you from your duties here. Now, on to greater matters. Vasily Alexseyev, you must take a wife. You may need plenty of time to . . .” She trailed off.
Vasily got a stricken look. “A . . . a wife? Of course I shall, Mother. It’s only a matter of time, you see . . . .”
“There’s no time like the present, particularly on this fouled world. Where would you be had your father not found me?”
“Dead?”
“Never born, dear. My point is that Linnet killed your father. It can kill any of us at any time. You could be dead tomorrow.”
Vasily gulped. “The oligarchs killed him, you mean. He was assassinated. It’s not like he died a natural death.”
“Natural? What does that mean here? Oligarchs, poison, heavy metals: it’s all one, all as natural as any other way of expiring. Plus,” she continued. “It took us quite some time to have you once it had been decided upon. It’s not easy to bring a child into this world.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“Vasily!” she snapped. “Watch your mouth! We didn’t make this place, your father and I; we were born into it. We made the best of it, and we will go on making the best of it. We will keep it going until it cannot go any more. And that means you, too! We must take steps! And so, I have decided it.”
Vasily looked glum. “Decided I’ll marry. I would have anyhow, you know. But I shall fire my engines, if you like. Is that all, mother?”
Mrs. Alexseyev sighed and shook her head. “Sit down, Vasily.�
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He flung himself resignedly into an overstuffed armchair. “I really should be going.”
She barreled ahead. “I have chosen you a wife. You are to marry before Rivetday feast. It is all arranged and cannot be undone. Do not rise, Vasily, or I shall disinherit you. You don’t believe me?”
Vasily looked incredulous. “You can’t do that! It’s not yours to disinherit.”
She looked at him archly. He averted his eyes, knowing he had very little chance of defeating her in open warfare if it came to that. Would she really do it?
“But, why are you doing this, mother? I’m barely home from college, I’m swamped with work —”
“Vasily Alexseyev! Enough! You are not taking care of business. I must do it for us. We shall be joined with the Chernows through their youngest daughter, Marielle. She is reasonably swarthy, fertile, and good breed-stock. I am informed she is clever, as well.”
“Marielle Chernow!? Impossible! You cannot be serious, mother. She’s . . . she has a big nose. She is flat-chested and her ribs stick out. Her nostrils whistle when she talks. She’s trade, mother! You can’t!”
“Pah! As to your description of her person, I could say the same things of a sylph. Beauty lies in the mind’s eye. In any case, I have seen her likeness, and it is acceptable — especially for a Chernow. Indeed, I have accepted her. And so shall you.
“I have arranged for the tailor to make your suit and conception breeches. Inchrises and Melchis are strategizing security for the welding rites. The welding is to be on the roof of the manufactory, with fresh-laid turf, garlands upon the belch-stacks, and a gazebo for the rites. We will color the exhaust emissions especially for the occasion. No expense will be spared.
“There are some little things you must deal with immediately, but it’s a mere formality. Cooperate, and all will be well. Our physician will observe their physician. I have also asked your friend Nisus to assist you with certain other preparations. You’ll find your credit allowance increased for the next four weeks. I have provided him with like credit. Do as he bids, does what he does. Do not shirk. Prepare your . . . yourself, Vasily.”
“Whatever can you mean, mother?”
“I mean you to sire children with all dispatch, before . . .”
“Before what!?”
“Before anything happens. Before anything else can happen. I have to tell you, Vasily Alexseyev, I am concerned. It is a time of change. The Works do not produce the flow of credits they once did. I do what I can, but I am not your grandfather, nor your father.”
“Then surely I should be the one to —”
“Yes, you will run the Works. After. After you have proven yourself. We must make sure you can take care of the future. With Nisus’ help, and this girl, I believe we shall.”
“It won’t stop me boulevardiering, you know,” Vasily said, puffing his chest.
Mrs. Alexseyev looked upon him pityingly. “No, of course, dear. That is your right. A man eats sides after the main course. So long as you mind your manners and wipe your chin, do as you like.”
A pot clanged in the kitchen. Mrs. Alexseyev ignored it.
“You would not do well to inflame your in-laws, however. I have met the Chernow woman. She is formidable. She is not to be crossed. I believe she and I understand one another very well as to mutual expectations.”
Vasily hung his head. “I can’t believe you’re doing this. If father were here . . . .”
The thought hung in the air. Mrs. Alexseyev offered no further justification. She gave Vasily no room to wriggle free.
“Twelve weeks,” he finally said.
“What?”
“Twelve weeks’ credits — for me, anyway. Nisus is rich on four. I will go out in style.”
“But the welding is in eight weeks.”
“All upfront. To do as I like with.”
“Done. But no more tooling or exotic materials for the lab beyond that. We cannot afford it.”
“I shall make do. Besides, I am occupied with labor-intensive tasks at the moment.”
“Assisting Inchrises?”
“Of course. What did you think I meant?”
She looked dubious. “I speak with him every day. He didn’t mention any unusual efforts under way.”
“I’m just in the planning stages. I’ll be implementing shortly.”
“You just be sure Inchrises looks over everything first. He is our institutional knowledge.”
“I’ll have this place humming,” Vasily assured her. “You won’t believe what we can do. Credit flows will not be the problem; accounting for it all will be.”
Vasily & The Works (Tales from the Middle Empires Vol III) Page 5
